o’er seagirt Ithaca Rests with the gods. But thou shalt keep thy wealth, And may no son of violence come to make A spoil of thy possessions while men dwell In Ithaca. And now, my friend, I ask Who was thy guest; whence came he, of what land Claims he to be, where do his kindred dwell, And where his patrimonial acres lie? With tidings of thy father’s near return Came he, or to receive a debt? How swift Was his departure, waiting not for us To know him! yet in aspect and in air He seemed to be no man of vulgar note.”
Telemachus, the prudent, answered thus:—
“My father’s coming, O Eurymachus, Is to be hoped no more; nor can I trust Tidings from whatsoever part they come, Nor pay regard to oracles, although My mother send to bring a soothsayer Within the palace, and inquire of him. But this man was my father’s guest; he comes From Taphos; Mentes is his name, a son Of the brave chief Anchialus; he reigns Over the Taphians, men who love the sea.”
He spake, but in his secret heart he knew The immortal goddess. Then the suitors turned, Delighted, to the dance and cheerful song, And waited for the evening. On their sports The evening with its shadowy blackness came; Then each to his own home withdrew to sleep, While to his lofty chamber, in full view, Built high in that magnificent palace home, Telemachus went up, and sought his couch, Intent on many thoughts. The chaste and sage Dame Eurycleia by his side went up With lighted torches—she a child of Ops, Pisenor’s son. Her, in her early bloom, Laertes purchased for a hundred beeves, And in his palace honored equally With his chaste wife; yet never sought her bed. He would not wrong his queen. ’Twas she who bore The torches with Telemachus. She loved Her young lord more than all the other maids, And she had nursed him in his tender years. He opened now the